


Sometimes (I Need You)

by Tullia



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Drug Use, Fake AH Crew, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Vague Sex, descriptions of depression aren't excessive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tullia/pseuds/Tullia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've learned to cope as best they can--a human being can get used to anything. But nights get lonely, and thoughts of blood and guilt and fear feel like a burden clogging their heads, but sound like solidarity when they're unloaded to a friend. Because although this is business, it's hard not to feel something for the people who save your life on a daily basis. So they reach for each other's comfort when they're drowning, breathe in each other's soothing words and hold each other so they won't be swept away.</p><p>But this time, Michael's not there to rescue Ray.<br/>--<br/>Drabbles about how the crew members help each other cope, followed by Ray and Michael finding comfort in each other when the job gets to be too much for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes (I Need You)

**Author's Note:**

> Ah I had a lot of fun writing this! It's very self-indulgent in the drabbles but I hope you all like it and it makes sense.
> 
> Enjoy!!

Of course, they all have breakdowns. There isn't a human being on Earth that could do what they do and be completely unaffected by it. Or, they'd like to hope so, anyways. Their work gets done, no matter how brutal or violent or sick it may be, and the satisfaction of a job well done, or a fat paycheck, or a rush of pure, animalistic power is their well-earned reward. Sometimes, it's even fun. Everybody always talks about the rush they get, Los Santos thugs won't shut up about it, actually, but the Fake AH Crew knows it like an old friend. It's addictive--the fiery feeling in their blood, the sharp, excited glances from a partner, the cool purity of a trigger waiting under an index finger, the shine of unshed tears in an opponent's eyes as they count their final seconds, the musical contrast of the silencer's cough and the wet splatter of brains on the wall, the artful patterns left behind on concrete, blood and chunks and bone and _I did this_.

But it gets to all of them.

Gavin has nightmares, shaky, sweaty, cold dreams that twist his proudest moments into horror and shame, that leave him screaming into the pillows and unwilling to succumb to sleep for days after. Geoff snarls and threatens his torment into rage, screaming at the other men until he's red and spitting every word, wringing his hands around obedient throats, forcing those who trust him most to stare down the barrel of his pistol until he feels in control again. Jack drowns herself in whatever she can get her hands on, disappearing for days or even weeks at a time as she binges on expensive hotel rooms, pay-per-view porn, alcohol, prostitutes, coke, and greasy food. Ryan makes the city suffer--he lets the unhinged part of himself loose, lets his eyes get dark and icy as he wanders, whistling, into the streets and unloads his clip in whoever's nearby, lets his lips curl into a curdled-milk smile as he ties a stranger down and pulls off their fingernails. Ray finds any way he can to destroy himself, and when needles and cheap, humiliating sex aren't enough, he stops eating, stops showering, locks away his knives and guns because he's not sure what might happen if he didn't. And Michael, loud, fiery, volatile Michael, he goes quiet, eyes distant and mouth dry with silence, and none of them are able to shake him back to himself until he decides to come back.

They've learned to cope as best they can--a human being can get used to anything. But nights get lonely, and thoughts of blood and guilt and fear feel like a burden clogging their heads, but sound like solidarity when they're unloaded to a friend. Because although this is business, it's hard not to feel something for the people who save your life on a daily basis. So they reach for each other's comfort when they're drowning, breathe in each other's soothing words and hold each other so they won't be swept away.

They can all go to Geoff. His apartment has a revolving door and a comfortable couch always available for the main crew, because their boss takes care of them. He'll sit them down, pass them a glass of liquor or his bong or a mug of hot cocoa, and let them talk. It's so easy to talk to Geoff. He fills in the silences when their throats get tight, nods and pats their knees with warm, understanding eyes. He offers them a place in his bed or a bed on his couch, kisses their foreheads and says, quietly, "I'm so proud of you. I know I push you hard, buddy, and you're doing a great job. You'll make it this time, I promise."

Michael takes advantage of this often, seeking approval and calming words when the job makes him anxious. He trades the hot cocoa for Geoff's hand in his, returns the kiss on his forehead with the press of his lips against Geoff's cheek, his jaw, his mouth. Sometimes they stay there for hours, Michael curled close against the warmth of his chest, sighing at the way Geoff's breath tickles the hairs that brush into his face, falling asleep to the sound of Geoff's heartbeat. Sometimes they fall into bed together, desperate and lonely and pent-up from the stress of their work. Michael likes the forcefulness of it, the way Geoff pulls his hair too hard and pins his wrists to the mattress, the way he feels like he has to fight for his pleasure, buck and bite and strain against Geoff's force until they're evenly matched.

Jack spends a lot of time in the apartment as well. Often, it's just to share a bottle of whiskey with Geoff and reflect on their time together, beam proudly at the crew they built together from the ground up, exchange _remember that time when_ 's and _I wish I could forget that_ 's. But sometimes, it's Jack arriving uninvited, tipped off by the shortness of Geoff's temper on a job they worked the day before, stepping into the apartment to see broken dishes in the sink, the couch turned over, bloody knuckle-prints on the exposed brick walls, and Geoff sitting in the middle of the wreckage, curled in on himself and shaking. And those times, she lets Geoff do the talking, lets him unload as she wraps a steady arm around his shoulders and they both sit in the aftermath of Geoff's rage. Once she bandages his knuckles and coaxes him to bed, Jack throws out the dishes and scrubs her friend's blood off the walls, letting herself forget that he called her a "fucking useless cunt" that morning and might've meant it.

Because Geoff is the only one who can pull Jack out of her hell, too. Somehow, when she goes on a bender, there's always eventually a knock on the hotel room door. Geoff tracks her down again and again despite her best efforts, and he's always sternly collecting the empty bottles, pouring the half-empty ones down the sink as she shrieks at him and pulls her clothes on, tries to stuff the coke under the mattress but gets that taken away, too. He saves her from herself, quietly stands his ground while she curses him and shoves him too hard and threatens to get her gun out. But in the end, she always ends up holding his firm hand with tenderness and apology, thanking him as he holds her hair back and she vomits up the damage she's done to her body into the hotel toilet. Geoff drives her home and hugs her tight on the doorstep, a silent _you're welcome_  and a verbal promise of "Take a couple days off."

Michael and Gavin are fantastic at pretending everything is alright. They grin and tease and laugh, taking on the role of court jesters to keep the crew in good spirits. They get so loud, so ridiculous that no one can think, no one can let their minds dwell on the dozens of children they've orphaned when there's two idiots having a tickle fight on the hood of Ryan's car. Sometimes, Ray joins in, all goofy grins and self-depreciating sarcasm to coax chuckles from the other members of the crew. It's a welcome distraction, and a great alternative to the sick, sadistic comments that Ryan and Michael sometimes exchange in order to numb themselves to the violence. Ray once overheard them playing a twisted game of _would you rather_ , and he caught Michael admitting he'd rather scoop a man's eyes out with his fingers than disembowel someone with his housekeys. Both he and Ray shuddered when Ryan smirked and knowingly commented, "Yeah, but eyeballs are pretty tricky to get out with just your hands. And you'd be surprised how easily a key could cut through somebody's guts."

There are a lot of times when Gavin desperately needs the distraction, when he asks Michael to come over and play Peggle for hours while they poke fun at each other and wrestle and squawk out laughter, forgetting their fears but also never addressing them, never letting them become real. They both hold their tongues around each other, Gavin never mentioning the shakiness of Michael hands on the controller, Michael never pointing out that Gavin jumps three feet out of his shoes when the ice maker _crash_ es from the kitchen. When they're together, nothing exists but the sheltered, joyful world of each other.

But sometimes, that's not enough. Sometimes, Gavin wakes up alone in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat and too afraid to even get out of bed and turn on the light. He's rescued by the glow of his phone screen as he dials, and finally soothed by the sound of Jack's gentle, sleepy voice in his ear. She always picks up, no matter how late it is or how hysterically Gavin cries. She simply talks him out of bed, soft assurances of _you'll be alright_ , and  _it was just a dream_ , and  _I'll be there soon_. They end up at sleazy diners at 3:00 AM, picking at crappy burgers and thin milkshakes, but it takes Gavin far away from his fears, and Jack lets him talk without end. They stay there until the sun rises and the waitresses change shifts, Jack's brow tightly ridged in concern as Gavin's pain tumbles out of his mouth in a quiet, inarticulate babble. But she listens, and she tucks away his doubts, and sometimes, he falls asleep comfortable and safe in her passenger seat on the ride home. When he does, Jack lets the car doors shut softly, carries Gavin's small form across the threshold and tucks him into bed, her arms warm and strong and always there to hold Gavin up. Sometimes she stays curled next to him in case the nightmares jolt him awake again, and she's comforted herself by the soft sound of Gavin's breathing.

And Ryan... they might all, rightfully, be a little wary of Ryan. His breakdowns have body counts, so Geoff indulges him by cleaning up the Vagabond's messes, and the rest of the crew avoids him when that last shred of humanity leaves his eyes. He's typically solitary in his struggles--or, at least, he is once he's finished with whoever is unlucky enough to be his coping mechanism. But sometimes, he needs human contact too, he needs to be held and reassured and told he's worth something. So sometimes, he ends up crumpled and broken on Ray's kitchen floor, his hands being pried from his face and kissed, softly, knuckle by deadly knuckle. Ray slowly unfolds him from where he's curled in on himself, squeezing Ryan's knees and running his hands up and down his calves, for minutes at a time, until Ryan relaxes and lets his legs inch away from his chest, lets Ray sit in the space between them. Ray's hands don't stop, crawling up his chest, warm and sure, massaging at the tension in his arms, his shoulders, anchoring themselves at the back of Ryan's neck. Ray squeezes the muscle there, scratches pleasantly at Ryan's scalp until he'll meet Ray's eyes. And Ray can see that his eyes are genuine, like the warm smile that he sometimes gets to see when Ryan enjoys his stupid jokes. Ryan lets him touch his face, lets him swipe the half-fallen tears away from the corners of his eyes, lets him part his lips with a soft thumb at the corner of his mouth before Ray kisses him. Sometimes it escalates, Ryan needy and grabbing at Ray's body, tugging on his hair, biting at his skin, before Ray sinks between Ryan's legs and sucks all the remaining tension from his body. Sometimes, it's just that one kiss, before Ray takes his hand, pulls him to his feet, and leads him to bed so Ryan can be safe and held in Ray's arms, his back warm against Ray's chest.

But Ray, Ray's the one who desperately wants to be alone when he's broken, who hides himself away and locks his doors and windows and ignores the knocks, the texts, the phone calls. The others try so desperately to help him, leaving voicemail after voicemail trying to coax him out of bed, calling Chinese take-out to his doorstep so he won't starve to death, texting him smiling photos of the crew out to lunch, captioned with, _wish you were here_ , or _miss you, Ray_. When he finally feels well enough to stand, he'll sometimes find Michael camped outside his apartment, seated on the cold floor of the hallway, asleep with his head tipped against the doorframe. Ray invites him inside, and they share the cold Chinese food over a few games of Call of Duty before Michael gets him to talk, watches Ray mash buttons and flick joysticks as doubt and horror pass through his lips and across both their faces. It's mutual, then, Ray's therapy session becoming an exchange of fear and worry and digging both their darkest demons from where they've hidden them away. Sometimes, they hug goodbye after a few hours and ruffle each other's hair, playful but with a somber look in their eyes. Sometimes, Michael stays, and they succumb to their neediness for each other, thrilled to be comfortable and wanted and both gasping, hot and overwhelmed on Ray's couch, slotting their mouths together and slipping their hands between each other's legs.

But this time, Michael's not there to rescue Ray.

Three days. Thirty-three unread messages. Eighteen missed calls. Seven voicemail messages. Ray blinks in the semi-darkness of a room closed off to the late afternoon sun, groaning at the sharp pain in his empty stomach and dull ache of his stiff back. His phone screen is glowing again, and everything's blurry, but he can make out the telltale green speech bubble of a text message. He's too guilty, too far in this hole to even listen to the voicemails, but texts--he could probably handle that. At least he doesn't have to listen to the concern in his friends' voices, the slight crack of Gavin's words when he asks if Ray's been eating. Ray locates his glasses and arranges them on his face, scowling at the finger-grease and streaks on the glass, but peers at his phone, summoning the courage to skim over the newest messages that show up on his lock screen.

Geoff Ramsey (12 minutes ago)  
_Ray? You okay, buddy?_

Geoff Ramsey (10 minutes ago)  
_I know you're having a bad day, so I'm sorry to ask. Michael didn't show up to our meeting yesterday, and I haven't been able to get ahold of him all day today. Think he'd answer you?_

Geoff Ramsey (now)  
_We all tried. Gavin went to his apartment. He's not talking, Ray._

Ray swipes the phone unlocked, managing to sit up in bed, which is an improvement. Every muscle in his body protests, begging to lie down and forget about everything for just a little while longer, but the uneasy twist in Ray's stomach motivates him to slowly type out a response to Geoff. They all get antsy, nervous, when Michael's not right. They're not sure what to do, or what Michael might do--to them, to himself, to civilians. It's just... unsettling, in a way that no one else's breakdowns are.

_I'll call. Do what I can. I'll head over there if he doesn't pick up_

_Thanks. Keep me updated?_

_Sure_

With Geoff satisfied, Ray anxiously scrolls through his recent messages, skipping over the crew's kind and concerned words to find his texts from Michael. There are a few, appearing strange and sad following the playful exchange of stupid memes hovering above them from their conversation days ago.

Thursday 12:14 AM  
_You up? Wanna do games and pizza at my place?_

_Please?_

Friday 2:49 PM  
_You good, bro?_

Ray also has four missed calls from Michael, the most recent being from late Friday evening, as well as a voicemail from Michael mixed in with the jumble of notifications waiting for him. He has to check the date on his phone for a frame of reference--his cloudy mind has lost track of the days. It's Saturday, just after four P.M., the device informs him. Ray bites his lip and presses play on the message, holding the receiver to his ear and bracing himself for Michael's words.

_"Hey, man, it's me... You doing alright? Dude, that job was kind of a lot, huh? I just figured, if you like, wanted to get your mind off of it, we could at least like try to find a distraction or something. Beats bevs and games by myself. But, seriously, hope you're good, Ray. Call me back, or come on over if you're feeling up to it. Alright. Bye."_

Ray can hear the worn emptiness underneath Michael's bright tone, the way he pauses too much between each sentence like the gears in his head are working too slow, too clogged with other thoughts. He taps the call back button, unsurprised to hear Michael's smiling voicemail message without a single ring. So he hangs up, drags himself from the warmth of his dirty sheets, and opts for a shower so that Michael might believe he's some level of functional and okay. His whole body sighs when the hot water meets his skin, massaging away the tension of being prone in bed for too long, groaning at the feeling of clean hair, the skin that's no longer greasy, the joints that pop when Ray scrubs at his scalp. But it also gives him too long to think, the bare tile walls a canvas for Ray's memory and imagination.

Thursday's job, as Michael had commented, was kind of a lot. He and Ray had been assigned as damage control on a raid of a rival gang's warehouse, taking out henchmen, cops, or civilians that would get in the way of the operation. If things went south, their men had an escape route through a basement delivery tunnel, with Ray poised to snipe anyone who trailed them above ground. Michael had lined the building's other exits with explosives, one hand on the trigger in his pocket and the other resting on the _speak_ button of his earpiece, waiting for the order.

Unfortunately, the familiar crackle of Geoff's voice barked in their ears, fuzzy with the safe distance between their boss and the danger zone. "Plan B. Jones, go."

"Copy." Michael didn't hesitate. Ray braced himself, stomach brushing the hot desert stone beneath them as the warehouse blew apart and their ears painfully protested against the terrifying noise. Ray remained focused despite the world coming apart around him, peering through his scope at the end of the tunnel, waiting for their men to resurface. When they didn't, he glanced up at Michael, concerned by both his and the radio silence.

"Get out of there, you two. Recon is not necessary. Get out. Stay sharp."

"We copy," Michael replied stiffly, staring at the crumbled building in the valley beneath them. The old, run-down warehouse had collapsed to rubble and dust, the foundation caving in and crushing the tunnels below. There were no survivors. Michael was silent on their ninety-per-hour ride home, letting Ray drive and thumbing along the buttons of the small detonator he pulled from his pocket.

Ray cuts the running water to shake him out of his memory, toweling dry and snatching an acceptable-smelling pair of jeans from the top of his laundry pile. Once dressed, he collects his phone, wallet, and a granola bar that his hungry body positively demands. He scarfs it down on the short ride to Michael's apartment, the food settling in his gut like a brick, almost as heavy as the guilt tucked beside it. He washes it down with a sip of sun-warmed water from an old, crinkled bottle in his center console, grimacing at the stale taste. With a sigh, he makes his way into Michael's building and up the stairwell to his floor, knocking insistently on the door, flicking old paint chips off his knuckles when they stick there.

"Michael? Hey, dude, it's me, open up," he tries, punctuating his calls with another pattern of loud knocks. No answer. Minutes pass, but Ray doesn't let up, slamming his fist against the wood until he's sure Michael should be cursing him out. "Bro, you're not getting rid of me. If you don't open up, I'm coming in uninvited."

Ray gives him a couple more moments of consideration before pulling a pair of lockpicks from his wallet and scraping his way through Michael's deadbolt. Luckily, Michael hasn't fastened the chain, so Ray is able to swing the door wide and step into his friend's living room, pocketing his picks and politely shutting the door behind him. The place appears empty, save for the small, telltale signs of Michael's presence: a hoodie discarded on the armchair, a half-eaten hot pocket growing cold or growing mold on the coffee table, more than a few beer bottles keeping it company on the floor.

"Michael?" Ray steps in and leans over the back of the couch, peering at the mess, only to be startled by his friend staring back up at him from where he'd been hidden, prone on the cushions. "Jesus!"

Ray isn't used to the silence. Michael doesn't offer a greeting, his lips dry and sticking to each other in their chapped unuse. He blinks at Ray before slinking his eyes back to the ceiling, content to bask in the fluorescent lights of his apartment and ignore his friend come to help him. "You alright, man?"

Still no answer. Ray resolves to fill the silence, grabbing an armful of empty beer bottles and the discarded microwave dinner. "Damn, dude. Five beers and forty percent of a hot pocket. Somebody's been watching Food Network."

Michael's eyes are on him, watching him make his way to the kitchen.

"I know you're feeling inspired and all, but all I'm good for is grilled cheese and pizza rolls. Hope that lives up to your standards." Ray dumps the dirty dishes into the sink, then scours the fridge for something beneficial to put into Michael's body. Its contents are about as impressive as Ray's own: some condiments, a questionable carton of milk, a few Kraft singles, and a tupperware of leftover barbecue from Ryan's cookout last week. Michael also has a shelf of expensive beer and a twelve pack of Red Bull, behind which Ray spots a couple bottles of water, snatching one for himself and one for his friend. It's better than nothing.

Twisting the cap off of Michael's water, he returns to set the bottles on the coffee table, tapping Michael's thigh playfully. "Up ya go, big boy," he orders, and offers Michael a hand to pull himself up to a sitting position when he finally obliges. The redhead is gazing at his hands now, distracted until Ray shoves a cool bottle of water into them. He glances at Ray in thanks, the first communication he's managed since Ray busted his way in, and gulps down most of the beverage without stopping. Ray sips at his own, settling beside Michael, close enough that his knee brushes the fabric of Michael's sweatpants. Once his friend seems comfortable, Ray pokes at his shoulder, figuring he can probably irritate Michael into speaking. "Hey, bro. You alive in there?"

Michael grunts in annoyance. Hey, at least that's vocal.

"Alright. I'm gonna text Geoff, tell him you didn't buy a plane ticket to Cuba and disappear off the face of the earth. He's been asking about you." Ray types out a reassuring message to Geoff, letting their boss know he has the situation handled. He hears a soft muttering from beside him, followed by Michael clearing his raw throat.

"What?"

"Wouldn't go to Cuba, idiot," Michael mumbles, picking at the plastic ring around the mouth of his water bottle.

"Fine, I'm sorry, where is the Michael Jones-approved fugitive vacation spot?"

"If you're smart," he begins, licking his dry lips and letting his voice return to a more familiar volume, "you've gotta get to China. You change your name, buy a modest apartment, don't piss anybody off, and you'll be forgotten about in no time. Nobody's gonna find you in a sea of that many people."

"Well, you're fucked with that plan, dude. No way you wouldn't piss someone off after like, twenty minutes."

"Yeah, you're right. Plus I'm pretty sure they have doorframes made for people who are like, five-two."

"Holy shit, dude, racist," Ray chides with a chuckle. He reaches over to ruffle Michael's hair, which is surprisingly fluffy and clean. "I bet if you chopped off your fro' here, you'd lose at least two inches."

Michael leans into the touch a little, and Ray's relieved that he seems to just be down in the dumps, maybe a little lonely, not unpredictable and violent like he can sometimes get. "Fuck you, it's not even that poofy. I like it."

"I like you," Ray counters, puckering and smacking his lips as he leans in to plant a teasing kiss on Michael's cheek. Michael pushes him away, toppling him over on the couch before Ray's lips get anywhere near him.

"Don't be dumb," Michael huffs, but there's a smile twitching on his lips. He won't meet Ray's eyes. They shift back into comfortable positions, a full cushion of space between them now. Ray's just glad he's speaking again.

"Hey," Ray begins eventually, waiting for Michael to look up and acknowledge him. Ray taps his own temple with an index finger. "What's going on up there, bro?"

Michael huffs out a humorless laugh. "Too fucking much."

"Tell me." It's an offer, not a command, and Michael lets out a long sigh as he contemplates taking the invitation.

"I've killed a lot of people, Ray," he starts, placing the water bottle on the table in front of them. He doesn't continue.

"Me too, dude."

Michael's biting his lip, and he looks so conflicted, has so much pain in his eyes that Ray wants to tuck him into his arms like he does with Ryan, let him crumple against his chest and talk, cry if he needs to, let Ray run his fingers through that soft hair and kiss the top of his head with a tenderness he reserves for people he can't live without. But that's not how Ray and Michael work. They might end up in Michael's bed, wrapped around each other and breathing in each other's cologne, but it's with muttered, chuckling assurances of "no homo, dude," and "don't get gay on me, bro." It's a constant tug-of-war of who's going to catch feelings first, of who's going to let the sex get to their head instead of just their dick, of who's going to cave and send the needy text at 2:00 A.M. Ray's pretty sure they're both too far gone already, that their _I need you_ 's are in the way they can't go a week without hanging out, that their _I love you_ 's sound like _dumbass_  and _fuck you_  and _you suck, dude_.

"I've killed a lot of people, and most of them, I don't give a shit about. I don't feel bad," Michael continues. "That probably makes me a piece of shit. But I don't care that they died because of me."

"We're all pieces of shit, here, man. That's what makes us so good at our jobs. If we let ourselves care, we wouldn't get anything done. It's easier that way."

"Yeah, I mean, I guess so. But... but I think there's some people you should feel something for." Michael pauses, looking at his hands again.

"Okay."

"We lost four guys on that job, Ray. And--I know it happens all the time, I've missed my mark and let my partner get shot, or seen one of our guys get bipped by cops while I drive away, but this was different. It was my finger on the detonator. Those guys died by my hand."

"You don't have to carry that alone, dude."

Michael nods, pawing at his eyes like he can will the unshed tears away with pure force. "Y'know the gunner on that team, Martinez? We grabbed lunch on Tuesday, and he told me he'd just gotten married. He was so damn excited, showing me the ring, telling me all about the girl. Fuck, Ray, he shouldn't have even worked that job, but he needed to pay off the loan for the ceremony before the honeymoon this weekend. He should be in goddamn Aruba right now, fucking his wife on the beach, but instead his wife's making funeral arrangements."

"Shit, Michael," Ray breathes, letting out a long, heavy lungful of air. He sets his water bottle down carefully. "You know that's not your fault, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Geoff's said it a million times already, it was his call--"

"No, I'm serious. People know what they're signing up for when they join our crew. They know it's life and death, that the longer they stick around, the shorter their life expectancy. He wouldn't have been in that warehouse if he didn't know that."

"Yeah, I guess." Michael's wringing his hands, biting his lip, still unsure. Ray scoots back over to his side, nudging and tipping Michael over to rest his head on Ray's shoulder.

"It's fucked up, bro. Plenty of people have died, and even if we're careful, there's gonna be more," Ray sighs heavily, feeling the burden of their failed job as well. Michael nuzzles more comfortably into his shoulder, his breath warm through Ray's t-shirt. "We're not gonna save everybody. You've gotta choose your people wisely, and keep those people close. Geoff, Ryan, Gavin, Jack, they're our people. They're the good ones, we gotta keep them around."

"Mmm," Michael agrees. He grabs unceremoniously for Ray's hand, doesn't exactly hold it, but runs his thumb along his knuckles. It makes Ray's heart do an embarrassing little flutter, his skin feeling rather starved of contact. "What about you?"

"You couldn't get rid of me if you tried, dumbass." Ray entwines their fingers, smirking at the implications of it.

"Aw, Ray, if you wanted to hold hands, you could have just asked," Michael coos in his ear. "Wanna braid each other's hair next?"

"Fuck you," Ray huffs, but his heart soars when Michael doesn't let go.

"Wouldn't you like to?" Michael asks smugly, and they fall into comfortable, friendly silence despite the honesty in that question hanging around them. Michael's still rubbing his thumb in small circles along Ray's skin, and Ray has to work to keep his breathing even, relaxed, in control.

"Shit--" Ray says at the same time Michael breaks the silence with, "Ray--"

Ray goes quiet again, waiting for Michael to continue. It takes him a minute. "If I asked you if you actually wanted to fuck right now, it wouldn't just be a pity fuck, right?"

"Michael, you're always a pity fuck."

"Oh my god, prick!" Michael pulls away, offended but laughing, and Ray leans in after him, freeing his hands to grip the front of Michael's shirt, pulling him back into a warm kiss, enjoying the way his friend sighs into the contact.

The kiss is long, slow, not exactly the quickie-with-your-best-friend kind of desperation that they claim their arrangement is, and Michael's tongue swiping along Rays bottom lip, sliding along the front of his teeth, prodding insistently into his mouth, it leaves Ray gasping. They kiss like that for several long minutes, touching only where their mouths are slotted together and Ray's hand is bunched in Michael's shirt, until they're both breathless and have to pull way. Michael's eyes are wild, raking over Ray's face, to his lips, leaning away a little to glance down his body. Ray licks his lips at the attention, finding his voice.

"One condition." Michael's eyes snap back to his lips, distracted. "I'm on top."

"Fuck no! You're comforting me, remember? I get to choose," Michael reasons, sliding a hand up Ray's chest seductively, curling around the back of his neck, anchoring him a few inches from Michael's face. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted and wet from Ray's kisses.

"You suck."

"Maybe, if you're nice."

Ray bites his lip, bargaining. "Flip a coin?"

"Shit, Ray, nothing sexier than a quarter regulating our sex life."

"Better than sitting here arguing until we've both got blue balls." Ray drags a hand down Michael's chest for emphasis, past his stomach, to ghost over the beginnings of a tent in his loose sweatpants.

"Alright, alright, I'm heads," Michael finally agrees, pressing a quick peck to Ray's mouth before reaching in Ray's back pocket to snag his wallet in search of a coin.

The penny ends up bouncing off the coffee table and going flying halfway across the room, both of them laughing as they stumble over each other to chase after it. Ray doesn't even ask for a do-over when it comes up heads, instead ignoring Michael's smug expression to lead them to the bedroom. He doesn't complain when Michael presses him into the mattress, and when he gets his hands on Ray, the only sounds coming out of Ray's mouth are Michael's name and low, wordless, open moans. They fuck like lovers, Michael sinking into Ray with lips against his ear, whispering _You like that?_ , _You want more? Beg me for more_ , and Ray writhing under him, meeting the rolls of his hips enthusiastically, with gasps and _yes_  and _more, that's so fucking good, don't stop_.

In the morning, it's playful wrestling and stealing bites of each other's breakfast and _get the fuck out of my house, freeloader_ , grins across their faces and bright mischief dancing in their brown eyes. At work on Monday, it's _glad you decided to show up, lazy-ass_ , and _wish you hadn't, asshole_. It's punching each other's shoulders and having each other's backs and Michael calling Ray a pussy. And it's Ray letting it slide and never mentioning all the times he's seen Michael cry, all the times they've been weak in front of each other and for each other, all the fondness they're trying to keep stuffed in the confines of their hearts so it won't come tumbling out of their mouths. Sometimes, that's all that keeps them going.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading--hope you liked it!! Please leave kudos and a comment to let me know if you did!


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